


Heart's Desire

by ljs



Series: the Power stories [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 18:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9249512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: An AU series in which we diverged from canon right after "A Study in Pink," but the beginning of this fic is inspired by a scene in "The Six Thatchers."Anthea returns from a work trip to find an empty refrigerator and Mycroft up to something. The result is joy.This is the last of the Power stories.





	

Exhausted after a fortnight's work trip in various Eastern European hotspots and an overnight flight home a day earlier than scheduled, desperate for milk for her tea after her workday at the River House, Anthea opens the refrigerator in her and Mycroft's flat.

"Oh, Mycroft," she sighs to the empty room – and to the empty refrigerator.

She should have known not to leave him unsupervised during Anni's annual holidays, but for God's sake, he's a bloody grown man, he's the British Government, and he should be able to keep food in the flat. It's not for herself that she's so irritated – she can take her tea black, after all – but that he promised her he was taking care of himself whilst she was away. Perhaps he ate some days at the Diogenes, but –

She vengefully pulls a menu for the local Indian place off the refrigerator door. Bloody incompetent at looking after himself, her man is.

After a look through the cupboards as well, Anthea jots down a list of essentials for the next two days until their housekeeper returns to work. A quick phone call to their favourite shop, and she's promised delivery within the hour. She checks her watch automatically – 5 pm – and then takes her tea (black) into the bedroom to start unpacking.

It's 5:40 by her watch when the front door opens. She hears the thud of an umbrella in its stand from two rooms away. 

He's back from work shockingly early.

She pads on bare feet to the kitchen doorway, where she's treated to the sight of him stretching long and lean in front of the refrigerator before he opens the refrigerator door. "Oh bugger," he says softly to its emptiness.

"Yes. You should prepare your explanation for this sorry state of affairs, darling," she says. She's crossed her arms for full effect.

He whirls around at her voice. "Oh bugger," he says with more feeling.

"That's not exactly the greeting I expected," she says. She has to fight a laugh at his fleetingly hunted expression –

Which turns into a frown. "Why didn't you text me you were coming home early, my dear?" he says, an outline against the light from the open refrigerator.

She raises her eyebrows. 

"Right," he says, and shuts the refrigerator door. Two steps from her, two steps from him, and she's in his arms. His kiss is properly welcoming indeed.

When he pulls back, they inspect each other. "You look exhausted, Anthea dear," he says, and runs a gentle thumb under her right eye.

"So do you, Mycroft darling," she says, and mirrors his move.

He's frowning again. "Why didn't you text me?"

"Debriefing which started as soon as I got off the plane. Not very nice," she says. "M is in quite the rage at the moment."

"Then Eve should have contacted me," he says.

"Bond's off piste. Bit of a mess." Anthea doesn't need to say more.

Mycroft sighs. "It's been rather messy here as well."

"And we both know how much you dislike messes," she says teasingly.

"Wretched woman," he says, and kisses her deeply. This time the kiss feels different – more serious, in a new language she can't quite read. His hands go to her face, holding her still, and in those long fingers against her skin she feels the sweetest pressure. "Dearest wretched woman," he whispers against her lips and then takes them again.

"Mycroft," she says when she can, which isn't soon. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." This time his thumb traverses her lips, soft from his kisses. His gaze is intent on her face, assessing her, and she can't explain why it makes her feel so cherished.

Then her phone goes off. "I ordered some provisions," she says at his narrowed eyes. "The delivery must be almost here."

"I'll collect and pay for them, since I was the one who let our stocks get so low," he says.

" _Low_?"

"Answer your phone," he says, not quite smiling. "I'm off downstairs."

As she clicks her phone, she notices that he picks up the briefcase he'd left by the doorway, which is an odd thing to do – one, she has security clearance, and two, she'd never look at his papers uninvited. But she forgets about that strange break in routine as soon as she has milk for her tea.  
……………………………………

With one last flourish of the blow-dryer, she finishes her post-shower routine and then shakes out her hair. After she puts the dryer away, she gazes unseeingly at the mirror.

Something's afoot.

She and Mycroft had shared a pot of tea and caught up on what work events they could share, and then he'd bustled her off to take a shower. As she reached the hall she heard his phone ring, and then a sharp, "Sherlock, not tonight if you would."

When Mycroft doesn't have time for Sherlock, something is _definitely_ afoot.

Once in her (once his) dressing gown and her lounging attire, she goes in search of her devious partner. He's not in the kitchen, not in the lounge, not in his Zen retreat. She's pondering going down to the lower level, when suddenly the most amazing smells permeate the air.

Food. Hot, prepared food. 

She goes back to the kitchen, where there are now orchids in her grandmother's vase and Mycroft's taking several little boxes out of an insulated box. "Been to the shops while I showered, darling?" she says.

"Not exactly." He takes one more box out and then says, "Why not open the Bollinger, my dear? Unless you object to Champagne tonight."

"No objection in the world," she says.

When she turns back around with bottle and two flutes in hand, she stops short. This isn't just food. This is from Helene Rogier, a highly exclusive French restaurant in Soho, one of her favourites. They don't deliver. They certainly don't do takeaway.

She immediately goes through three possible scenarios which might prompt the fuss he's making. The strange thing is, and perhaps it's because she's tired, she can't really guess which one it is. So – because she's tired – "Mycroft, what is this in aid of?" She gestures with the flutes at the spread laid out on the kitchen island.

"I missed you," he says matter-of-factly. "I missed you rather badly, in fact."

She has to put down the Champagne and the glasses lest she drop them, she's so moved by his words. "You've rarely said anything so… direct…to me before."

"Have I not? My apologies. I've often thought it," he says, and comes to her, and steers her to her favourite seat before pulling her hair off her neck and kissing her lightly.

"You must have missed me even beyond your need for me to fill the refrigerator," she says through a laugh, through an inexplicable wish to cry.

"At some point I shall enumerate the ways I missed you. We'll need a good chunk of time, of course. A day or two. A week." He starts to move around the island –

But she catches his hand to keep him near. "I missed you too, darling. So much."

He kisses her fingertips – only Mycroft could manage to make it look like just something an ordinary man does on an ordinary Thursday night – and goes to his seat. He's put out plates, and now he offers her "Your choice of lemon sole or chicken crepes, which you've ordered an equal number of times when we've patronized the restaurant. You have a choice of two sides, and the bread with garlic butter you favour."

"Crepes, please. You aren't fond of garlic, however," she says. "I'll save the bread for tomorrow's lunch."

He smiles without looking at her, his gaze intent on plating the food. "If that will make you happy."

"You make me happy," she says, and begins to unwind the cap on the Champagne.

They eat. They drink. They talk, the desultory but easy shorthand conversation of people who've been together almost a decade. Halfway through the meal Mycroft lights the thick, scentless candles she often uses, and the light flickers over his face so softly that he looks younger than the often worn out, middle-aged man he is. He's even unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and loosened his work tie.

Anthea realizes that she is in fact happy, almost floating in contentment.

Which explains why it's not until they're almost finished that she realizes that her phone has been silent for over an hour. She collects it from the pocket of her dressing gown. Two texts, both from Eve, sent before dinner.

_M has given you four days off. Take them._

And then, _Christchurch Meadows, warm Ben's Cookies, your heart's desire. XX Eve_

"What is it?" Mycroft says, an edge on his voice.

"Eve. I'm off for a few days, which ordinarily I'd protest but now I welcome. And something cryptic about my favourite biscuits in Oxford."

"Ah," Mycroft says, the edge gone, and he begins to clear their plates.

"I'll do that," she says, starting to get up.

"No. Stay there," and now there's command in those polished tones.

It's the plan again, she thinks, Mycroft's back in control, and she refills their glasses.

This time it's his phone that goes. He looks at it, says "Sherlock" under his breath like the loving curse it is, and clicks on. "If you're not in hospital or prison, it can wait." There's a muffled Sherlock contribution, and then Mycroft says, as if goaded beyond endurance, "All right. But if you say one thing untoward, you will pay." He hands the phone to Anthea.

Smiling, she says, "Hullo, little brother."

"Right, fine, give me back to Mycroft," he says, "I've heard what I need."

She hands the phone back, and Mycroft, sporting his best "Canonize Me, I've Never Murdered to Death My Brother" face, says curtly, "I hope you're satisfied." There's more Sherlockness, at which Mycroft actually smiles, before he says, "Thank you. Please do stay out of hospital or prison for at least three days."

Then Mycroft unbelievably silences his phone and puts it away, and Anthea realizes that this is Serious.

He hesitates for a moment, then says, "Let's take the Champagne into the study."

"Yes," she says, because she has just come to the realization that they must change their kitchen wallpaper, because the study is one of the other two places in their flat where they connect most strongly, and because she is starting to remember Eve's reference.

He ferries the orchids and the Champagne bottle. She takes the glasses. Once there, she turns on the gas fire, and he arranges things as he wishes on the table next to his old leather chesterfield. There she sits, expecting him to sit down next to her – 

But he stays standing, looking down at her. "You are remarkably beautiful," he says quietly, "almost as lovely as you are intelligent."

She gazes at him. He is so elegantly controlled, in the line of his body, in his voice, but she knows him and loves him, and he's shaken. She's so focused on him, in fact, that for a few seconds she doesn't process what he's said. When she realizes the compliment he's paid her, however, it's her hands that tremble. "Mycroft, you couldn't have said anything more perfect. I have always been proud that you value in me what I would hope is most valuable."

"Yes. I think I see you clearly," he says.

And that's when the memories click fully into place. When Mycroft had recruited her all those years ago at Balliol, after the interview Anthea and Eve had gone down to Christchurch Meadows after getting a couple of celebratory chocolate biscuits fresh out of the oven at Ben's in the Covered Market. They'd sat down on the riverbank and watched the Thames go by, and then Eve had said, "So it looks like your life's about to properly begin. What's your heart's desire, Anth?"

"I think I've just seen it," Anthea had said, and had laughed about the tall, armoured, controlled man in the Senior Common Room saying that he thought she'd "suit."

It had been power and knowledge she wished for then, and she has both now. But the most important part of what she needs is a man who shares his power and his weaknesses with her, a man who pushes her and provides a safe space to land at the same time. This man, who sees her clearly and loves her.

"My heart's desire," she says now, and smiles at him. "What's yours, darling?"

He hesitates, then sits down beside her. His hand goes into his suit pocket and brings out – oh God, he has a ring box.

"I wasn't going to do this tonight, but…I've been thinking about it through this whole hellish year past," he says slowly, as if he's working this out as he goes along. "Our world is so uncertain, Anthea. It's so bloody messy. And while I once thought that my protection lay in solitude, I realize that caring for you, loving you, is the thing that protects me from harm amidst the ruin. I hope it protects you too. So will you marry me?" He not quite smiles. "As you've put it, my dear, it would be my heart's desire."

"What did you estimate the probability of my saying Yes is?" she says, through a rush of joy.

"85.7 percent," he says without hesitation.

"Then you were having one of your rare moments of fallibility, my brilliant darling, because it is an absolute and unqualified Yes. Of course. I love you beyond anything, you ass." 

"Yes, I knew that, but –" he begins, ready to proceed to justify his prediction, but then stops himself. "Yes?"

"Yes, of course," she says, and takes the ring box from him. "And since clearly Eve Moneypenny consulted on the ring selection, I know I'll like it." When she flips the box open and sees the fire of diamonds around a substantial emerald, however, her assurance falters. "Good God, Mycroft."

"Too much?" he says. "It can be changed if you wish."

"You are never taking this away from me. And I am never leaving you," she says, as the ring slides onto her finger and the box falls to the floor.  
………………………………..

To mark the occasion, they have sex in their actual bedroom. Sometimes they have played games with sex, but this is not a time for toys or ropes – this is just Anthea and Mycroft, locked together under the covers, he inside her, she matching the snap of her hips to his, deep and hot. They keep their eyes open and on each other. 

When they come, her first and then him, their fingers link. Anthea can feel the difference in the pressure of his hand against her new ring.

Despite her own lack of sleep in the past twenty-four hours, it's Mycroft who falls asleep after sex. Anthea, floating on exhaustion and love, gets up and goes to her phone. She sends two texts.

_Sherlock, you may call me Little Sister if you wish. Of course I said yes to him, as you probably obnoxiously knew. A_

And _Eve, heart's desire. Yes indeed. I owe you chocolate. XX A_

Then she goes back to their bed, spoons him (despite his unconscious mutters), and lets herself fall into the sweetest sleep she's ever had, because when she wakes up he'll be there.


End file.
